


of nightmares and nail polish

by foolondahill17



Series: miracles 'verse [3]
Category: Supernatural
Genre: Curtain Fic, Disabled Dean Winchester, Kid Fic, M/M, Parenthood, a little angsty, but very soft, happy and alive, not quite fluff
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2021-01-05
Updated: 2021-01-05
Packaged: 2021-03-16 03:40:29
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,088
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/28575405
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/foolondahill17/pseuds/foolondahill17
Summary: Parenthood involves a lot more nail polish, night terrors, and YouTube videos then Dean was expecting.
Relationships: Castiel/Dean Winchester
Series: miracles 'verse [3]
Series URL: https://archiveofourown.org/series/2081412
Comments: 16
Kudos: 162





	of nightmares and nail polish

**Author's Note:**

> I couldn't help myself T_T Dad!Dean makes me all warm and tingly inside. 
> 
> Warning for themes of grief, difficulties of parenthood, and references to young children dealing with trauma. 
> 
> Like the tags say, this is a little too angsty for straight up fluff, but it's definitely very soft.

Dean has mastered the art of hauling himself into the wheelchair by the side of his bed to the point that he can execute it flawlessly even when half-asleep. The startling, gut-wrenching screams echoing from across the house are already quieting. Cas is sitting bolt-upright in bed, performing half-conscious gymnastics of his own as he swings his legs over the side, prepared to sprint out of the door. 

Dean stops him with a curt, “I got this one, man. Go back to sleep.” 

Cas falters against the residual adrenaline, but he ultimately falls back against his pillow and shuts his eyes. “Call me if you need me.” 

Dean’s already heading out the bedroom door. He propels himself across the living room, passed the front door, and to the bedroom on the opposite side of the house, inwardly cursing the thirty or so feet of space. He’s aware enough that this is technically not an emergency – at least not the type of emergency that requires the blade strapped in a secured holster under the armrest of his chair – but it’s still his kids, dammit, and any time spent getting to them is wasted time. 

Dean opens the bedroom door, and he’s greeted by a nervous yip from Miracle, standing in the middle of the room, twitchy by his inability to bound to the top bunk and get to Ella, whose screams have now transformed into muffled sobbing. 

“Hey, baby girl,” Dean calls to her gently, feeling anxiety twist in his own belly from the fact that he’s currently unable to reach Ella, either. 

“There – th-there’s monsters in the closet,” Ella tells him through hitched breaths. “M-Micah saw ‘em.” 

“That so, buddy?” Dean asks, turning his attention to the bottom bunk, where Ella’s little brother sits crammed in the corner, all wide eyes and trembling, sleepy confusion. He’s got a corner of his favorite yellow, bee-covered blanket in his mouth. Kid never lets it out of his sight. The only time Dean’s heard Micah yell was when Dean tried to wash the thing last week. Ella came to her brother’s rescue immediately, landed a surprisingly solid hit to Dean’s solar plexus, and Cas had a long talk with her about _gentle hands_ before Dean brought her into the yard and taught her how to throw a punch without hurting her wrist, _for emergencies only_. 

Micah blinks at Dean silently. It’s the fourth time this month that Ella’s woken up screaming. She’s blamed it on her brother every time. 

“You want me to check, little dude?” Dean asks Micah. When Micah continues to regard Dean with silent apprehension, Dean draws Ella back into the conversation. “What about you, Elly-Belly?” 

“You – you gonna kill ‘em?” Ella asks. 

Not for the first time, Dean wishes like hell that Ella and Micah didn’t already know the truth. It would be so much easier if he could reassure Ella without a shadow of doubt that monsters weren’t real, so of course there wasn’t one in her closet. But Dean knows Ella won’t believe him if he tries pulling that shit, now. 

“Whatever I’ve gotta do to keep you and your brother safe,” Dean tells her instead. 

He wheels over to the closet on the other side of the room, accidentally rolling over one of Ella’s building blocks. Dean already knows the closet is empty. There are too many wards around the house to allow anything onto their property. Besides, there’s no better alarm for supernatural activity then a dog, and Miracle was sleeping peacefully before Ella woke him up. But Dean still makes a show of throwing both doors open, checking between Ella and Micah’s hanging clothes, even ruffling through the hamper because it makes Ella give a watery giggle. 

“All clear,” Dean says finally. 

“Micah wants you to make absolutely sure,” Ella demands. 

“Yeah, sport?” Dean asks Micah, playing along. He turns back to Ella, “What do you think we can tell him that’s gonna make him feel better?” 

Ella thinks seriously for a minute. She’s got her chin propped on the safety rail. Her nails are still painted bright yellow. Jody, Donna, and the girls celebrated the kids’ arrival with ginormous gift baskets: enough candy to keep them both jumping off the walls for a year, nerf guns from Claire, coloring books from Kaia, a _Doc McStuffins_ DVD box set from Alex. But the neon nail polish set Patience picked out was the biggest hit. No one in the family escaped, even Dean, who grudgingly received Ella’s careful brushstrokes on his fingertips. Sam laughed at him, but Dean elbowed him in the ribs and told him to just wait until Eileen had their daughter, then he’d see what it’s like. 

It wasn’t until he crawled into bed with Cas that he realized it was the first time he’d used the word _daughter_ in reference to Ella. His kids, sure. But _son_ and _daughter_ felt so much more personal. He’d been a little freaked out by it, but, surprisingly, the staggering warmth and joy to the sound, an unerring _rightness_ to the words, quickly overtook any misgivings. 

“You checked the closet and there wasn’t any monsters?” 

“No monsters,” Dean tells her gravely. His daughter. His beautiful baby girl. 

“And – and you and Daddy Cas’d protect us if any monsters ever got in?”

“Absolutely.” 

“You won’t let ‘em hurt us?” Ella asks. Her hair’s compressed on one side from sleeping on it. Cas has watched countless hours of YouTube videos on how to style and take care of her hair, and Dean’s been so inundated by hair type charts and conversations about textures and porosity he finally cracked and begged Mia for help. Mia came through with a ton of resources, complete with several references for parenting kids of a different race. Dean’s looking toward to a ton of hard work and reading, but he’ll learn anything if it means Ella and Micah grow up feeling safe, loved, and respected. 

“Never,” Dean reassures her earnestly. 

“And you won’t let ‘em hurt you?” 

Dean hesitates. It is so fucking hard knowing what to say. He wants so badly to curl Ella in his lap and never let her go, never let her get hurt by anything ever again. He knows it’s impossible to be absolutely certain that he or Cas won’t be hurt by monsters again, and maybe it’s unfair to promise her otherwise, but, dammit, she watched her parents get killed by a monster; he can’t let her worry that she’s going to watch it happen all over again. 

“I promise, sweetheart,” Dean tells her firmly. “Me an’ Cas ain’t going anywhere.” 

“You’ll give ‘em hell?” Ella asks. 

Dean tries to hide his smile. Maybe he’s supposed to chide her about the language, but who is he to talk? She definitely picked it up from him, not Cas. 

“Hell yeah,” he tells her. 

“Okay,” Ella says finally. She scrubs the tears away with the back of her wrists and sniffs loudly. Dean aches to wipe away her tears, himself. He doesn’t often resent his wheelchair, and he hardly ever complains out loud – after all, he’ll take partial paralysis over death any day – but it hurts sometimes to know his lack of mobility stops him from being able to gather his kid into his arms whenever he needs to. And there’s the constant ebb and flow of fear when he’s using his crutches. What if he falls? What if Ella or Micah get hurt and he can’t reach them?

And there’s the non-physical stuff, too. Dean’s terrified of the inevitability of having a panic attack when he’s alone with the kids. Or what about days when he’s too depressed to get out of bed? Sure, Cas is always there; and Sam and Eileen are only fifteen minutes away. But still. Dean doesn’t want to scare the kids. 

God knows, Dean would have lost his mind twice over if it hadn’t been for Cas. Cas always seems to know the right thing to say. He has infinite stores of patience and tenderness. The only time Dean’s seen him falter was when Ella pointed to a picture of Sam, Dean, Cas, and Jack in the bunker – taken by Mom, maybe, or another of the apocalypse hunters. Dean watched Cas’s eyes film with tears, his mouth drop in rare speechlessness, and Dean answered for him: 

_That’s Jack. Our kid. He was – is your big brother. But he’s not around anymore._

_Like Momma and Dadda?_

_Sorta. But he’s always right here,_ Dean put a hand to his chest. _Just like your Momma and Dadda are here, too._ He placed his hand over Ella's heart, and he could feel the steady beat of her pulse under his palm. _Always right here, sweet-bee._

“You ready to sleep again?” Dean asks her. 

“Okay,” Ella agrees. 

Dean kisses his own fingers before stretching his arm upward so Ella can touch his hand. She takes the kiss from him and puts it against her cheek. Dean’s chest aches, but he smiles through it. Ella flops back onto her mattress. He can hear the rustling of her blankets as she gets situated again. 

Ella is all stubborn, abrupt decisions. She’s energetic and strong-willed. She’s fiercely protective of her little brother, and immediately took her one-year-old cousin under her wing, as well. But she’s also soft and hides her hurt behind frustrated tears and screaming tantrums. She’s desperate to be heard and seen, and Dean does everything in his power to make sure he can give her those things. She loves bounding around the living room to Dean’s music and practicing Karate kicks and somersaults with Cas when they play ninja turtles. 

Micah, on the other hand, is whisper quiet, apt to fade into the background if not given careful attention; Dean’s found him hiding in the corner of a room more than once, and each time feels like someone’s reached into his chest and snapped off one of his ribs. Micah’s scared of everything and dissolves into silent tears at the drop of the hat. He loves fluffy things; Miracle has adopted him as his second charge. And Micah never lets go if he can help it: holds tight to his blanket, to Cas, to Dean, to his sister. 

Dean turns to Micah, bracing himself for the kind of heartbreaking fight Micah is apt to give whenever faced with the idea of either Dean or Cas leaving him for the night. “What about you, sport?” 

Micah’s eyes immediately widen from their sleepy droop as he realizes Dean’s leaving. He lets out a tiny squeak of fear, and his arms close around his chest in a tight, terrified version of the ASL sign for _hug_. In the absence of words, Eileen’s been teaching Micah to communicate through sign language. It’s been a lot more successful than Dean and Cas’s shared attempts to get him to talk again: through sing-a-long Mickey Mouse CDs, nursery rhymes, or picture books. 

“Okay,” Dean says at once, in an effort to sideline any possible tears. He spreads his arms; Micah crawls toward him immediately, blanket trailing behind in one wet fist. “I got you, big guy. Come ‘ere.” 

Dean scoops Micah into his lap and holds him close. Every time Dean hugs the kid, he marvels at how tiny he is: all birdlike fragility under his lingering baby fat. He smells like the strawberry scented bubble bath Cas gave him before bed, and Dean buries his face in Micah’s frizzy hair, pressing kisses to the top of his head. 

“I got you,” he repeats, rocking slightly. He hopes the movement will lull Micah back to sleep. Bedtime has been dealt with so far by either letting Micah fall asleep with one of them on the couch before transferring him to bed or sitting beside him in the semi-dark of the bedroom, lit by a Superman nightlight, until he heads off to Lalaland. Getting him back to sleep after an episode like this one is always difficult. 

Micah squirms a little, so Dean loosens his hold, figuring he wants to tell Dean something. Sure enough, Micah puts his hands out in front of him, palms up, and draws his arms to his chest. 

“Want?” Dean asks, recognizing the sign. “What do you want, bud? Need the bathroom?” 

Micah shakes his head, whines a little, and his movements become more frantic. 

“Hey, hey, it’s okay, Mikey,” Dean reassures him. “It’s okay.”

Micah keeps moving his hands, _want_ , and now there are tears pooling in his dark eyes, as well. Dean’s heart sinks. Dean is so tired. The kids officially moved in a little over a month ago. Their days have been filled with toys, new clothes, favorite foods, kid movies, games, and anything else money can buy that will make Ella and Micah feel safe and at home in Cas and Dean’s house. 

But there’s so much more to parenting then just the equipment. Dean can make grilled cheese for Ella every night, buy Micah as many stuffed animals as his little arms can hold, but it still won’t make it right. It still won’t make them feel secure and loved in the way they need – and that’s the kind of emotional labor that makes Dean feel like he’s gone three rounds with Gunner Lawless. It leaves him exhausted and wrung out, leaves him helpless and clueless and desperate for some kind of instruction manual. Terrified he’s making it worse. 

Sure, Dean practically raised Sammy, and he did okay with Ben, even did okay with Jack. But it still didn’t prepare him for this: a traumatized two-year-old who needs something from Dean that they can’t even articulate, something that Dean very well may be powerless to provide. 

“Mmmh,” Micah presses his lips together and hums in frustration. His little chin wobbles. “M-momma,” he finally whimpers. 

It feels like getting impaled all over again. Dean bites his lip against the physical pulse of pain. Shit. It’s been two months; a kid as young as Micah might have a pretty short attention span, maybe not the greatest retention skills yet, but like hell is he going to forget his mother so soon. 

Dean transfers Micah to his shoulder, puts his lips against his son’s warm, damp cheek. 

“I know,” Dean says, trying to keep his voice under control. The last thing this situation needs is Dean losing it. Even still, Miracle senses his destress, because he’s nosing against his arm. Dean spares Mir a reassuring pat on the head before turning his attention back to Micah. “I know you miss them. I know you’re sad. It’s okay to be sad. It’s okay, buddy.” 

Dean remembers this. He remembers waking up, cold and alone, in cavernous, musty hotel rooms. He remembers crying for the golden-haired vision of kindness, warm hugs, and the undeniable comfort of home and being met only with silence, occasionally the rough, whiskered cheek of Dad, or the fresh baby-powder scent of Sammy in his arms. Dean remembers wailing for a voice and a hand that would never touch him again, begging the universe for someone who wouldn’t come. And Dean remembers needing to be held. Needing to be comforted in a way he never was. 

Dean shifts Micah again so he’s holding him one-armed. Micah clings tight. Dean’s sleep-worn t-shirt is soaked through on the shoulder with tears and snot, but he doesn’t even notice.

Cautiously, Dean eases himself up on his good leg, slowly pivots, and then lowers himself onto the edge of Micah’s bed. He squirms his way into position, lifts his immobile left leg after him, and settles against Micah’s pillow.

Micah adjusts automatically so he’s laying on Dean’s stomach like a sloth clinging to a giant tree branch. With difficulty, Dean manages to tug Micah’s Star Wars comforter out from under him, and covers the kid with it. It’s way too short for Dean, and his ankles are left uncovered. In fact, the lower bunk is way too small for Dean, but he’s used to sleeping in cramped places; he can handle it, even if he’ll probably wake up with a crick in his neck tomorrow. 

Dean hears a creak from above, and the bed wobbles a little as Ella comes into view, clambering down the ladder at the foot of the bed. 

“Hop in,” Dean tells her, grinning. 

Ella doesn’t wait to be asked twice. Dean wiggles a little closer to the wall so she has room, and she curls up right against his ribs. Dean slings an arm around her to erase his worry of her rolling over the edge during the night. 

Dean lays there in the dark, staring at the slats of the top bunk above him, and he listens to the steady, slowing breaths of Ella and Micah as they’re eased to sleep. It takes Dean a little longer to let himself drift. 

The gray light of dawn coming through the curtains gently wakes Dean in the morning. He turns when he hears the door ease open to see Cas standing on the threshold. He’s dressed for work in his dress shirt, slacks, and ridiculous polka-dot tie Sam bought him last Christmas. Cas is teaching one summer course at the college, and he immediately enamored himself to his students when he came in with bright blue nail polish the first day of class, curtesy of Ella. 

Dean blinks himself fully awake, sharing a drowsy grin with Cas. Cas calls Miracle silently to his side so he can take him out for his morning walk. Then he flashes Dean the _I love you_ sign, which Dean sends back with a blown kiss and a wink. Dean’s smile follows Cas back out of the door, then he drops another kiss to Micah’s forehead, carefully brushes a curl of hair away from Ella’s eye. 

The kids are still peacefully asleep; they will be for about another half-hour until Ella tumbles out of bed, already a wiggling bundle of excitement over another day full of running through the sprinkler in the backyard, building and toppling block towers, and maybe a playdate with Uncle Sammy and little Dean. And Micah will bury his head in Dean’s chest and insist on another fifteen minutes of cuddle time, sitting in Dean’s lap as Dean wheels himself around the kitchen, pouring bowls of cereal and cups of orange juice. 

Despite the night’s fear, confusion, and tears, there’s always another morning to try again, and Dean’s never been so grateful for another chance.


End file.
